An excerpt from the play MORGAN

I’m in a mood tonight. Melancholy. It’s late. Dark. Quiet. In the past, this has not always been a good thing for me. Normally on nights like this I’d enjoy nothing better than to go out and howl at the moon. I truly want to do that.

However. It’s raining outside. From past experience, I know it’s difficult for me to get a good howl going when the moon is behind the clouds and my feet are wet.

Because of this I feel more inclined to share something with you tonight. It’s funny in a way. I’ve made all these claims about being a playwright, and I don’t think I’ve ever shared anything I’ve written.

And so, BECAUSE it’s late, and BECAUSE I’m in a mood, I’m going to give you what I consider to be the best monologue from the best play I’ve written. You’ve never seen it before. I’ve never offered it for production. But I give it to you tonight because you will understand what I’m saying.

A young Morgan le Fay has joined a coven of witches in order to advance her knowledge of magical spells. Her teacher, however, is concerned that Morgan’s focus is along the lines of black magic only, ignoring the more common earth magic and potions.









WITCH: A mage of worth is filled with wonder for all things. Knowledge is gleaned from the richness and variety of experiences. She can ill afford the luxury of a SINGLE abiding passion. If one favors the darkness, she will be blinded by the light.

MORGAN: And if the light gives naught but pain, would she not be wise to avoid it?

WITCH: And in so doing, avoid all the light may disclose? Smell the air. Do it.

(MORGAN sniffs the air,)

What say you? What do you perceive?

MORGAN: Nothing. Air.

WITCH: You do not allow yourself the most simple – the most basic – of pleasures. There’s no weakness, no surrender, in the enjoyment of that which is freely given. Given! Not bartered. Not sold or purchased. The light, the air …

MORGAN: Nothing is freely given! Not even air. It is taken!

WITCH: Can you not smell the scent of hay fresh mown? The faint tickle of dry leaves burning? You take them, true enough. But what price is attached? The trees below, shimmering in the moonlight … The stars above. Look to the stars, tell what you see, what you feel … what THEY cost you.

MORGAN: I once thought they be not stars but mirrors of my soul – those myriad twinklings set apart, aloof. How alike we are, I thought, to watch as bourgeous kingdoms rise, gasp for life and fall. To remain pure, chaste, unreached and unreachable, thereby avoiding the countenance of that soiled creature – God, in His perfect wisdom – permitted to begrime the earth. To live forever! To never age, or … or if to die, to die apurpose, a bright burning gash across the heavens. I thought them supreme! Omnipotent! One with the creator! But with the coming of the simple morn they depart, those stars. Frightened – no, offended – by the belligerence of the sun. I remain. I. Take me with you! Leave me not to face the iniquities of this little life … which draw me away … which make me less like you.

(MORGAN laughs.)

They do not hear me. Or, if hearing, disdainfully ignore my supplication. And in my heart, that secret place where truth be not denied, I am pleased – grateful! For if in compassion they respond, then they be more like me than I would be like them. And so … for a space I forgot them, moved as I was toward consuming sorrow, the pain within all too jealous for attention. And now I think again we are alike, those stars and I. Distant. Untouched. Unknowing. Affecting not the nature of any living thing, save as a curiosity. Existing for the mere sake of … existing.

WITCH: A pity there be no magic to fill an empty heart.